


There Are Different Ways To Live

by monkiainen



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Battlefield, Blood and Injury, Bloodplay, Canonical Character Death, Despair, M/M, Post-War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 12:25:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4564593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monkiainen/pseuds/monkiainen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the hope is lost as the battle rages on. Aragorn and Boromir spend a night together, trying to forget their worries for a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Are Different Ways To Live

The battle has been going on for hours and hours, although it feels more like days. An Orc after Orc keeps appearing from the hills surrounding Aldburg – it feels like they were never going to end. They are followed by vicious warg-riders, causing mayhem wherever they go. Aragorn has tried to keep an eye to his comrades – Boromir, Faramir, Legolas, Gimli, Gandalf and Éomer – but the tides of the battle separated them from each other. His head is filled with morbid thoughts of what-ifs and what-nots, before the onslaught of yet another colony of Orcs takes his attention.

It feels like a recollection of the battle of the Pelennor Fields – the air is heavy around them, and the land is filled with smoke and ashes. For a fleeting moment Aragorn yearns for Halbarad's companionship and expertise, but then an especially vicious Mountain-Troll tries to cut his body in half with a battle-axe and Aragorn must fight back in order to survive. He must stay strong for his men and not lose his head to daydreaming, figuratively or not.

It was foolish of the Fellowship to think that all the evil would be rid from the world after they had defeated Sauron and destroyed the One Ring. There was always going to be something evil in the world, trying to take over. The constant fighting was starting to feel pointless, and sometimes Aragorn wonders why he was doing it anyway. Of course Aragorn knew the answer – he did it all because he had a responsibility as the King of Gondor and the First High King of the Reunited Kingdom. His people depended on him to keep them safe. So Aragorn fought and fought and fought, and would do so until the day he dies.

The night falls and the battle ceases, giving both sides an opportunity to catch their breath. A messenger arrives, informing Aragorn that they have lost both Gandalf and Legolas during the warg-rider attack. For a moment Aragorn is struck with grief so strong he didn't know it even existed. Both Wizard and Elf were so dear to him, in more ways than one. The loss of Gandalf is especially devastating, for the other side has their own ways of creating magic and they don't have anyone capable of answering those vicious spells. They will also going to miss Legolas' skilled hand with bow and arrow – those sharp arrows were responsible for the deaths of countless enemies.

Why does he must carry on, even though there is no hope left for mankind?

Aragorn is still deep in his thoughts when a heavy hand lands on his shoulder. Aragorn knows without looking it's Boromir, because he would recognize the other man's scent anywhere in the world. It's a heady mix of sweat and musk and copper and something that is entirely Boromir. This is the only man who knows everything about Aragorn the man before he was Aragorn the King. Boromir doesn't say a word, not at first. They stand there side by side in total silence, but it's not one of those oppressive silences that make you feel anxious and intimidated at the same time. It's a silence born of shared battles and losses; a silence you don't have to break unless you want to.

It takes a moment for Aragorn to realise that the coppery scent is in fact the smell of blood. Is it his or Boromir's, he's not sure of. Aragorn turns to look at Boromir, and sees the bloodied cloth tied around the younger man's arm. There is too much blood for it to be nothing but a flesh wound, but Aragorn does not question Boromir. This is not the time for it. 

Aragorn does not know when he has been injured, or by what, but when Boromir gasps almost inaudibly he sees the rivulet of blood running down on his side. There is no pain, only numbness. Maybe this is the day the mighty King of Gondor will cease to exist anymore.

Boromir takes his hand and leads them to a near-by tent. It's not worthy of a king, or even a soldier, but it's all they have. There is a clammy and moldy straw mattress thrown carelessly on the muddy floor. The men lower themselves to the ground, avoiding eye contact. They both know what the future will bring to them; there is no need to address it.

Finally, after what feels like hours but in reality is only minutes, Boromir takes the lead and kisses Aragorn chastely on the lips. Even that simple kiss is enough to awaken the urge on his veins, and suddenly Aragorn can't get more of Boromir. He surges forward, captivating Boromir in a heated kiss that goes on and on until they both are gasping for air. It was never like this with Arwen, Aragorn thinks fleetingly, before continuing to explore Boromir's mouth with his tongue.

Clothes and pieces of armor soon find their way to the ground, scattered all over. All Aragorn can think of is having skin on skin contact, no matter how filthy or injured they are. Both men know they have reached the end, and it's all or nothing from this point on. Aragorn briefly wonders why he hasn't acted on his feelings before this very moment, but his heart knows the answer: _Arwen Undómiel_. There was a time when the elven-maid was he could think of in the times of darkest despair. And now? Aragorn does not know what to think or feel anymore.

His musings are interrupted when something wet and sticky caresses his bare chest. Aragorn looks down, and sees Boromir drawing something with blood. It shouldn't be as comforting and yet voluptuous as it is – Aragorn thinks he should be more disgusted with the whole prospect of playing with blood but he's not. It's Boromir's lifeline, connected to his forevermore. Aragorn touches the wound on his side, dipping his fingers to his own blood. He wants to mark Boromir as his before it's too late.

 _Mellon nîn_ , Aragorn writes to Boromir's uninjured arm.

 _Estel, adûnakhor_ Boromir finishes his work on Aragorn's chest, kissing every rune before the blood is even dried. The blood paints his luscious lips deep red, redder than the autumn leaves and the rubies of Gondor. Their lips meet in a kiss again while simultaneously their hands are frantically searching bare skin. Boromir spits to his hand before he grasps Aragorn's half-hard organ, his hand slick with a mixture of spit and blood. It doesn't take long for Aragorn to be fully hard, his cock throbbing in Boromir's fist. It too much and too little, and Aragorn pushes Boromir lying down to the misshapen mattress. A brief glance around the tent reveals that there is absolutely nothing to use to slick Boromir's entrance, except their spit and blood. The idea of using their blood is intoxicating to say the least.

Aragorn dips again his fingers to his own blood, mixing it with the blood seeping from Boromir's arm. The concoction is thick and sticky, the smell reminding him of life and death and the difference between them. Aragorn does his best to prepare Boromir, but the younger man is too needy to wait any longer. A push, a hiss, and a bliss.

Their lovemaking is frantic and desperate, ending way too soon. Neither man says a word while they slumber for few hours before joining the battle again. They don't need to, not after this. The memory of their night together will stay in their minds until the end of the world.


End file.
